One burly man, holding a stick, loomed over Xia Guobin's head, nearly ready to raise his hand and smash his skull with a single blow.
Xia Guobin, already over fifty, was exhausted and defeated from the continuous blows he had suffered. Hunched over, he greeted the intruders with a bow, watching as they filled the factory with chaos and had killed his dog, yet he did not dare to utter an extra word as he half-opened his mouth.
"Brother Hai, I really don't have the money to pay you back right now. How about this? I mortgage the factory to you as interest, and for the principal, please give me a few more days? I'll figure out a way to gather it," Xia Guobin pleaded.
Brother Hai chuckled dismissively, "Let me tell you, Xia Guobin, you sure know how to do the math. Your shabby factory doesn't earn a penny and even runs at a loss every month. Do you really think I'm such a fool to collect your junk?"
